Smiling Violets
by Anna Maxwell
Summary: Reminders of his past lead Crawford to search for acceptance...and he finds it in the most unlikely places.


1 Title: Smiling Violets  
  
Author: Anna Maxwell  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz characters do not belong to me. The singer does.  
  
Archive: If you want it, email me! Starchaser478@hotmail.com  
  
Author's notes: Where I come up with this stuff… This is not related to either one of the ongoing stories "A Matter of Time" or "If I Am Gifted." It's just an idea I had and it wouldn't leave me alone. A little bit limey, (I don't do lemons.) just to let you know. Angst, of course, is here, and Crawford centered. My writing universe is Crawford centered right now. Switches from third person to Crawford POV near the end. And Schu of course makes an appearance. This was a little bit strange for me, but I couldn't let it sit. I don't think a lot of it, but maybe you will. ^_~ Read, review, feel free to email me at starchaser478@hotmail.com . Enjoy.  
  
  
  
Smiling Violets  
  
November 22  
  
It had been a long, hard day for Bradley Crawford. He had been assigned a one-man mission. The mission had gone smoothly and perfectly as always, but this one tired him more than missions usually did. Maybe because he was alone after it was over, with only the ticking clock marking the passage of time to keep him company.  
  
Crawford left it all behind him as he always did, cool exterior in place. No evidence would tie him to ever being there, and there were no witnesses. There had been three men. Two of them he didn't know, never would, and didn't care. The third one he had known when he was young, before he'd gone to Rosenkreuz. The only memory he had of this man was the time they had 'played' together as children. They were playing baseball…no…kickball…and Crawford had anticipated a move the then boy was going to make. As he blocked the other team from getting a goal, the boy muttering 'freak' in his ear shattered his sense of pride.  
  
But he was dead now, so it didn't matter.  
  
It shouldn't matter.  
  
Somehow it mattered.  
  
Crawford couldn't shake the feeling of displacement as he walked down the neon lit street. The sun had fallen behind him, dipping the sky in the blood of his victims before fading to black. All he wanted to do was go home.  
  
He paused in front of one particular club, unknowing of what drew him there. He had never been fond of clubs or raves. The crowding masses, the sweating bodies moving to a heavy beat for lack of better things to do had never appealed to him. But this place seemed somehow different. Crawford pushed the door open.  
  
The place wasn't loud, as he had expected it would be. It was soft, smooth, and somewhat dark. He immersed himself in the smoky atmosphere and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a drink, and turned his gaze towards the stage.  
  
A young woman stood there, singing her song to some unseen audience. Her gaze was transfixed somewhere over the people, so they all believed she was singing to them. Brad could tell her mind was somewhere else completely; she was singing to something beyond what the half-drunk audience could fathom.  
  
Her appearance wasn't all that startling, not for a nightclub singer. She had dark chestnut brown hair that fell past her shoulders; she stood maybe five foot five and wore a pale purple dress. It was when she blinked and reopened her eyes that Brad became startled. They were a deep violet; flecked with a blue so blue it was almost black. They were not the icy fire violet that the leader of Weiß possessed.  
  
Maybe violet eyes were not so strange in Tokyo, but the fact that her gaze was locked with his was. She sang the last of her song it seemed to him.  
  
Or perhaps he was just falling for the illusion like the rest of the audience.  
  
He couldn't describe what he felt when he was looking at her and she was looking back. For a moment he believed that she could see the depths of his soul –if he still had one- and was not horrified by what she found there. For a moment he believed she knew what he was and all the things he had done and she did not care.  
  
He realized he wanted her. He wanted to know her name, her face, where she lived, what she ate and drank, how she walked and talked and whom she was with in the daytime.  
  
Brad frowned and turned away when the song was over. He was the leader of Schwarz, the fearless leader at that. In his position –in his disposition- he did not want those details.  
  
He was still staring at his drink when she sat on the barstool next to him. She ordered a drink for herself in a light yet serious voice. The bartender gave it to her. All this and she had not looked directly at him. It wasn't time for that yet.  
  
They sat there for minutes on end, neither one of the saying a thing or acknowledging each other's presence. Finally, almost against his will, he turned his head and found himself staring at her profile. After a long, agonizing moment, she turned and they met gazes for the second time.  
  
"Oh, hello." She said with a smile.  
  
"Hello." Brad replied automatically.  
  
"I've never seen you here before."  
  
"I've never been here before."  
  
"I see. Why are you here now?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink.  
  
"I don't know." Brad answered without thinking.  
  
The crimson tainted smile broadened. "That's a new answer."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Really." She nodded.  
  
There was a silence. Brad felt awkward, but if the young woman did she was not showing it.  
  
"Why aren't home then, with your family?" She asked with the same smile.  
  
"I'm not married."  
  
"I never said you had to be married."  
  
Brad glanced at her. Her expression had not changed. She continued.  
  
"My employers and the other singers are like family to me. I'm not married either, you know."  
  
"I know."  
  
She laughed. "Why do I somehow feel you know a lot."  
  
He shoved his glass away. "More than I care to." He stood. This was getting to warm, to close for him.  
  
"Don't go. What appointment do you have?"  
  
"I have no appointment." Brad said coolly.  
  
"Then stay." She grinned.  
  
He sat down and took a deep breath. "I'm a precognitive and I kill people for a living. I don't care who as long as I get paid and I keep nothing close to me." He stood at her silence.  
  
Her smile softened. "I know."  
  
He sat. "What?" She had to be an empath, or a telepath, or have some sort of mental skill if she knew. That meant her acceptance was because she was like him. And if she was like him, there was no point in staying.  
  
"I said I know."  
  
"What 'gift' do you have?" he asked quietly.  
  
She laughed again. "They call it charm, I think."  
  
"Then how could you possibly know? Or are you trying to be condescending towards me?"  
  
"I'm not trying to be condescending, darling, and I know because I saw it in your eyes. It's amazing what humans reflect in their eyes. Their joy and pain, their love and sorrow, their pleasure and grief, its all there. You just have to know how to read it. I see it in you. The look of a man who knows too much, does harsh things, and has been made harsh by it. But underneath that is the searching looks that so many people have. They're looking for someone to know what they are love them anyway. I know that look because I see it in the mirror. I don't do anything scandalous, to be honest. I simply sleep all day, come to work and sing all night. But I'm looking for something too."  
  
He was rendered speechless. In one conversation she had hit on something that he had hid behind mental shields since he was a child. And in her he had found what he was looking for. She knew, she believed him, and she did not care.  
  
She stood, smile still in place, and offered him her hand. "Come on, darling, let's have tonight."  
  
He took her hand and followed her into the night air. She didn't let go of his fingers and they walked down the street. Finally he stopped, causing her to jerk slightly and smile back at him.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Brad felt highly confused. He did not quite understand his impulse to follow her, but he knew it was going against all his ice barriers, and all his self-standards. "I should go home." He said.  
  
She smiled. He looked almost innocent then, standing under the moonlight staring back. Almost. She appealed to his logical side.  
  
"If you don't have a family, why not make my home your home for a while? Just keep me company. They can take care of themselves."  
  
He looked at her, again startled by the smiling violet gaze. "They…"  
  
"Pets, darling." She pulled a red strand of hair off his cream- colored suit jacket. "This certainly isn't your natural color."  
  
Brad allowed himself a small grin at the thought of the hair's owner being referred to as a pet. "All right."  
  
They started off again, heading towards wherever she was leading them.  
  
"So how many men do you do this with? One or two a night?"  
  
She gave him a mock glare before laughing. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. I don't do 'this,' ever. You're an impulse buy that's all. Beside, whoever said I was intent on doing 'that.'"  
  
He raised an eyebrow.  
  
She led the two of them into an apartment building and up to a room on the third floor. She let go of his hand to unlock the door. She threw it open and stepped in.  
  
Brad stood in the doorway, again unsure of what he was doing there. True, he was entitled to his impulse buys, as she called him, but this was highly out of character. Maybe because he knew that this would be a one- night stand. Maybe because he just felt like doing what he wanted to do for a change.  
  
He then realized the entire studio apartment was decorated in various shades of purple. Greens and blues were thrown in here and there, but it was mostly of the purple variety. Her curtains, rugs, bedspread, wallpaper, and even her microwave were in the color.  
  
"It's a fetish, I admit. But it's the only color I've really liked since I was a child." She said, as if reading his mind.  
  
Slowly, he shut the door. He walked over and leaned against her kitchen counter, which he noted, was grey marble in color.  
  
"Do you want something to drink?" she called. "I'm afraid I'm low on things right now…"  
  
"Whatever you have." He hadn't had Sprite in a long time.  
  
She came over to him with two cans of Sprite in hand. She poured the liquid in champagne glasses for effect. She motioned for him to sit, anywhere, and disappeared into the bathroom. "Make yourself comfortable." She called.  
  
This night was now beyond strange. He sat on the bed and waited.  
  
She reappeared in a silk pajama set. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that heels and hose and slips and all that junk just gets so uncomfortable."  
  
He couldn't help but grin. "You really don't bring men back here, do you?"  
  
She made a face. "Please, spare me. If I was a real woman of seduction, don't you think I'd have real champagne, the candles lit, rose petals hither thither and yon, and perfume down my dress?"  
  
"Your method seems to be fine."  
  
She grabbed her glass and sat across from him on the bed. "Oh? That's good. I don't want to be an old maid all my life."  
  
"You'll always be beautiful."  
  
They were both slightly taken aback by the statement. Brad never made comments like that, and somehow she knew it.  
  
"My charm must be working full force tonight. Thank you."  
  
He was drawn to her and he didn't know why, and at that moment he did not care. He set his drink down, leaned closer to her, and she leaned closer to him, and he captured her lips in the first true kiss he'd had in several years.  
  
She absently put her drink down somewhere, and unbuttoned his coat. He pulled it off and it fell to the floor. He pinned her underneath him and began kissing her more fervently. After a moment she stared up at him bemusedly. He glared down at her.  
  
"What?"  
  
"This isn't what you want, baka."  
  
He sighed disgustedly and flopped beside her. "Then what do I want, oh wise one?"  
  
She laughed and propped her head up on her elbow. "Men are all the same, gifted or otherwise. You don't have to be over a woman to be with a woman, you know."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I'm not. I didn't want to sleep with you. It would have ruined it. You're much better for looking at."  
  
He gave her a quizzical look. She grinned.  
  
"What, no one ever told you? You're a bishounen, darling."  
  
He nearly fell off the bed. "What?" he exclaimed.  
  
"I hate to burst your professional bubble, but you are such a bishounen it isn't even funny."  
  
He glared at her. "I am not."  
  
She laughed and tugged his tie off. "You are. And take off your shoes. If you want to lie on my bed you have to be comfortable."  
  
He obliged her and took off his shoes and unbuttoned a few of his dress shirt buttons for good measure. He made a show of it, making her laugh. He mirrored her propped up position and they watched each other.  
  
"I don't know your name." He finally said.  
  
"I don't know yours either," she reminded him.  
  
He started to tell her but she put a finger over his lips. "A name is just something you're called by, darling. It doesn't define you as a being, whatever it is. Names can change."  
  
He flopped over on his back and stared at her ceiling. "So why am I here?" he was mostly asking himself, but she heard.  
  
"Here with me or here on earth?" she asked.  
  
Brad snorted lightly. "Either, take your pick."  
  
"Well forget the latter. I couldn't tell you why you were on earth if I were pastor of a Catholic church."  
  
"Catholic churches don't have pastors." Brad said.  
  
"That's why I couldn't tell you."  
  
He rolled his eyes.  
  
"Why you're here with me. That's a good question, darling. But did you ever think that maybe I'm here with you?"  
  
He paused. "Here with you?"  
  
"Yeah. You've given me something I've needed for a long time, darling. Maybe that's why you're here. Maybe I've given you something too. I hope I have."  
  
Brad thought. He was used to professionalism, not socialism. This girl –and he really wanted to know her name, now would be a good time to be a telepath- had accepted the person he was as he was with no strings attached. He hardly understood it, and didn't think he fully ever would. The members of Schwarz accepted each other because they were alike. She liked him and they were two opposite ends of the spectrum.  
  
"You have." He said. It was nice, just being. But it would be over tomorrow.  
  
Weiß would raid the club she worked at the next evening. She would be murdered accidentally. She had nothing to do with the mission, but the sword swinging Aya Fujimiya would cut her down.  
  
He decided to indulge in his weakness. He pulled the girl against him. "Don't go into work tomorrow evening."  
  
She grinned. "Whatever you say, darling, whatever you say."  
  
So they laid there, the two of them, all night. Not much was said, but not much was necessary.  
  
When dawn broke through the window early the next morning, it roused Brad from his restful sleep. He looked down. The girl was still in his arms, chestnut hair falling across his chest. He shook her gently.  
  
She blinked groggily, but smiled up at him, violet eyes shining. "Morning." She whispered.  
  
"I have to go." He said softly.  
  
Her smile never wavered. "I know."  
  
Brad stood and pulled his outfit back together, looking just as he had when he entered the bar the previous evening. The difference was on the inside because he felt just a little bit warmer.  
  
He bent and kissed her forehead before leaving. "Maybe we can do this again sometime." He whispered.  
  
She smiled and nodded. "I'd like that. See you around, darling."  
  
He smiled back at her, and was gone.  
  
November 24  
  
She had died at Aya Fujimiya's hand, just like I knew she would. It was in the morning edition of today's paper on the fourth page. The headline was 'Club Singer Killed in Raid.' If only she had listened…  
  
I flipped the page and regained any composure that might have slipped as Schuldig entered the room. I glanced up at him and met his piercing gaze.  
  
Schuldig knew what I had done, but it didn't matter, because Schuldig understood.  
  
He would always understand.  
  
His usual smirk appeared. "Women never listen, Brad, you know that."  
  
I didn't justify his comment with a reply.  
  
He sighed and came up behind the couch I was sitting on. He trailed his fingers over my arm before grasping my shoulder. He leaned over, whispered in my ear, and told me her name. 


End file.
